The Prodigal Son (23 page)

‘I tell you, Thomas wouldn't—'

‘My father-in-law has ambitions above his station in life,' was the snapped rejoinder before the steward could finish. ‘And if the chapman's story is true – and I'm willing to hazard my last groat that it is – then Anthony has arranged this whole thing. He needs more time to talk the old man round, for I don't deny Thomas would have some qualms about persuading Rose to sell herself for money. I tell you, at some time during today, Anthony has paid Hamo Gough to find a way of keeping the family here overnight. And that's what he's doing now; persuading Thomas to talk Rose into becoming his paramour!'

‘I've never heard such arrant nonsense!' the steward spluttered. ‘It's midsummer madness with you, my lad, and that's the truth.'

‘It's not midsummer and it's not madness, just you wait and see,' the receiver retorted furiously. ‘Look how earnestly the pair of them are talking to each other! Linked arms, heads close together … And as for Anthony not being a rich man, pah! You've seen his clothes, his horse. His damn servant's better attired than I am. Whatever Master Anthony's been doing over in the eastern counties all these years – and I'd be willing to wager my life it's been nothing honest – it's made him money all right.'

A third voice was added to those of the two men already standing by the open hall window.

‘Are you talking about that cursed ruffian out there?' demanded the bailiff. ‘May he rot in Hell!'

‘That's enough!' George Applegarth declared. ‘I'll not stay to listen to more of this. I'll admit he's treated you shabbily, Reginald, but God's brought him home to be master over us and we must put up with the consequences. Besides, you'll not lack employment for very long. Sir Damien and Lady Chauntermerle will take you in and give you an honoured place. You've always been a favourite of theirs.'

‘I'd rather rule as master here,' was the terse reply. There was a short pause during which the steward must have moved away, for Reginald Kilsby's next remarks were a scathing attack on him. ‘That man's lower than a snake the way he crawls on his belly to whichever Bellknapp's king of the dunghill. Until that loathsome creature out there reappeared, it was Simon, as future master of the house, whose word was Holy Writ. Even Audrea' – the lack of title claimed a familiarity with the dame that it was impossible to mistake – ‘grows tired of it now and again, but he's such an old and loyal servant and friend that, until now, she'd never have dreamed of dismissing him. But this loyalty of his to Anthony could well be the undoing of him …'

The conversation faded as the bailiff and receiver retreated further into the hall, and then ceased altogether as they went about their business. The figures by the moat also vanished and did not return, so I was left to my thoughts in a gathering dusk that was thick with the scent of meadow flowers and yesterday's scythed grass. Mulling over the receiver's surmise that Anthony had been in touch with Hamo Gough, I recalled my own meeting with the charcoal burner that same morning and the impression I had had of someone following us. I remembered the way in which Hamo had paused, head to one side, listening, and I had myself heard the occasional snap and crack of a twig as though something, or somebody, was lurking in the undergrowth. Could that have been Anthony, waiting for me to be on my way so that he could speak to my companion in private? He would have known the previous day that the Bignells had been invited to spend the Sabbath at Croxcombe Manor.

But speculation was fruitless. I could make a reasonable guess, but that was all. And I was tired. It had been a long day, and I had an even longer one ahead of me on the morrow as I began my journey homewards. Although I was looking forward to seeing Adela (and – yes! – even the children) again more than I could say, I nevertheless felt a sense of defeat that I had failed to discover anything that could clear my half-brother of the charge Dame Audrea had brought against him. He was still locked up in the Bristol bridewell facing an accusation of murder. It crossed my mind that the one thing I hadn't done was to speak to Dame Audrea herself and try to convince her that she was mistaken. But where were my arguments that would demolish her case? What in fact did I know for certain about this man who had suddenly burst into my life, claiming kinship? I had nothing to go on except an innate conviction that he was indeed my father's son, and honest. Certainly not enough to convince a person as sure of herself as Audrea Bellknapp. With such a woman, my intervention might well make her all the more determined to prove herself right at any cost. No, it was best to leave well alone where my hostess was concerned and put my trust in George Applegarth.

I sat on the bench for a while longer, going over the murder of Jenny Applegarth in my mind, wondering what had become of the real John Jericho after he had fled from Croxcombe on that fatal night, where he had gone, what he had done with his spoils; wondering, too, what it was that Hamo Gough had seen – or thought he had seen – to make him dig around Hangman's Oak in search of something he seemed convinced was buried there. But the problem refused to resolve itself. No sudden flash of inspiration illumined my mind.

I stood up, realizing that the air had grown damp and that my joints were quite stiff with having sat still so long. I went round to the kitchens to say goodnight to Hercules, who was being so pampered by the maids and cook that he could barely condescend to wag his tail at the sight of me. Well, every dog was entitled to his day and his would be over very shortly. The first time Adam tweaked his tail and bawled deafeningly in his ear, he would know that he was home. I told him as much, making his adoring female admirers laugh, and the cook promised me breakfast at whatever hour I decided to set out, even if it were the crack of dawn. I thanked her and she turned back to her preparation of the ‘all-night' trays, with their jugs of wine and half loaves of bread, which the servers were busy fetching and carrying round to the various bedchambers, including the one shared by Anthony, Humphrey Attleborough and me. Indeed, Humphrey had been sent to collect our tray, his master, as he explained, being already in bed and impatient for his evening snack.

‘You'd better get on in, Chapman,' he advised. ‘Master Bellknapp's not in the best of humours.'

I made no comment, guessing that Anthony had failed to persuade Thomas Bignell to use his influence with his daughter. I reflected that, in spite of his winning ways, Anthony was an unprincipled rogue with fewer scruples than most men, which prompted me to ask Humphrey how his master had amassed his fortune.

Humphrey shrugged. ‘As far as I know, there is no fortune. He lives by his wits mainly. Games of chance and hazard. Sometimes we're in pocket, sometimes not. I've only been with him three years, but I assume he's always lived the same way. Which is why he needed to come back and claim his inheritance as soon as he learned about it.' He jerked his head. ‘I must go or I shall be bawled out for dawdling. Are you coming?'

‘In a moment. I'm not at Master Bellknapp's beck and call. I'm away home tomorrow morning, early.'

The servant grimaced. ‘You've not stopped long, then. Not three days. Your ankle's mended now, has it?'

‘My ankle? Oh … Yes.' I had forgotten my injury. ‘It was only a twist. Nothing serious. By the way, do you happen to know if your master got up early this morning and went to Croxcombe woods?'

Humphrey gave me an odd look. ‘He got up early, but it's not my business to ask him what he does or where he's been. Ask him yourself if you want to know.' With which sound advice, he took himself off in the direction of our bedchamber.

I hung around in the kitchen for a few more minutes as a matter of principle and to prove my independence, exchanging goodnights with the cook and the maids. I listened to the former's pithy description of Anthony's character, and how she didn't expect to remain at Croxcombe for very much longer, before taking myself off to bed.

My host was already under the coverlets, but sitting up and drinking some of the wine from the ‘all-night' and chewing on a crust of bread. Humphrey, who had stripped and was seated on the edge of his truckle-bed, was also munching. Anthony waved a hand at the tray, which had been placed on a chest beneath the window. ‘Help yourself,' he invited, as he had done the previous two nights, but without the same joviality.

Humphrey was right: his mood was surly and he seemed anxious to be left in peace to think his own thoughts. Something had upset him, so I undressed in silence, poured myself wine from what remained in the jug, swallowed it quickly and tumbled into my half of the bed. Just as I was dozing off, however, Anthony asked abruptly, ‘You've found out no more, then?'

I forced myself awake. ‘I'm sorry,' I mumbled stupidly. ‘Found out about what?'

‘About this page, John Jericho, of course. You boasted to me what a wonderful solver of mysteries you are, but you don't appear to have got very far with this. And tomorrow you go home … Well? Have you discovered anything?'

‘No,' I admitted, wishing to high heaven that I'd kept my mouth shut concerning my past successes. No good has ever come to me by blowing my own trumpet: it invariably leads to dire humiliation and makes me regret that I didn't hold my tongue. Some people can do it; some people can glorify themselves with impunity, but not me. I've always suspected that God gets annoyed when I take all the credit, most of which should rightly be His. So I just grunted and turned on my side, presenting my back view for Anthony's consideration and almost immediately drifting off to sleep. I thought I heard him laugh in that particularly mocking way of his which reduced poor Sir Henry to a stuttering, quivering jelly, but I couldn't be sure. I was already on the borderline of sleep.

When I opened my eyes again, it was already growing light. The bedchamber shutters were still closed, but haloed with brilliant sunshine. Somewhere a cock was crowing, king of all he surveyed and eager to make the world aware of the fact. I was lying on my back and continued to do so for several minutes, conscious of a dull ache behind my eyes and a throbbing head. If I had experienced these symptoms at home, I would have said – or, most likely, Adela would have said – that I had drunk too much the night before, but although I searched my memory, I could not recall having consumed much wine either at supper or afterwards. Indeed, for the whole of the previous day, I had been unusually abstemious. Perhaps, I thought, cautiously lifting my lids, I was sickening for something. Perhaps God was going to keep me at Croxcombe after all.

I sat up carefully and felt a little better, glancing across at Humphrey, huddled beneath his blanket and snoring with his customary vigour, then sideways at my sleeping companion. But to my surprise, Anthony's half of the bed was empty. For some reason, he had risen betimes. He might, of course, simply have gone to relieve himself in the garderobe, but we had a piss-pot in the bedchamber so it seemed unlikely. (On Friday, the first night of my three-night stay, we had actually had a contest to see who could pee the farthest distance without missing the pot. I had felt certain I would be the winner, but it was Humphrey who had won.) Oh well, I thought, easing my legs out of bed, I was not his keeper. It was his own house and he could do as he liked.

By the time I had dressed and checked my pack, to be sure that no one had pilfered its contents, I felt less unsteady on my legs, but had a raging thirst. I made my way to the kitchen and drank deeply from the water-barrel, then went outside to wash under the pump. By the time I returned to the kitchen, the cook had appeared and was boiling water for me to shave with.

‘Eggs?' she asked, preparing to crack a couple into a pan of spitting fat.

But my stomach rebelled and, as much to my own surprise as hers, I shook my head.

‘Bread and cheese will do,' I said, and drank more water. ‘Master Bellknapp's up early,' I added.

The woman shrugged indifferently. ‘Is he? I haven't seen him.'

Hercules had come sniffing round me in the hope of scraps, so I offered him cheese which he contemptuously declined. The cook took pity on him and fed him some of yesterday's meat. I watched him wolf it down with a queasy feeling in my insides.

The maids arrived from whatever corner of the house they slept in, rubbing their eyes and yawning, but rousing themselves sufficiently to insist on kissing me goodbye. The cook enquired if they had seen the master anywhere about as he apparently wasn't in his bed, but no one had. One of the girls noticed that I wasn't eating my usual hearty breakfast and asked the reason. When I explained, she volunteered the information that she had been awakened twice in the night by the sound of people moving about, and wondered if there had been anything amiss with the food at supper. The cook was so outraged by this suggestion, however, that the girl hurriedly denied any such possibility and said that she had probably been dreaming.

I was beginning to feel better, so I once more took my leave of the women, generously allowing Hercules to accept all the hugs and kisses and honeyed phrases that I flattered myself were really meant for me. Then, picking up my pack and cudgel, I went out of the back door, past the stables and animal pens, admired, as always, Dame Audrea's formal flower garden and headed for the bridge across the moat, where the keeper was busy unlocking the gate. Suddenly I remembered the Bignells and wondered if they were all three all right. I presumed they were. No commotion had announced any great catastrophe, and I was more than ever convinced that Edward Micheldever was probably correct when he accused Anthony of being the author of the plot; of wanting extra time to persuade the butcher to use his influence with his daughter. Thomas was to see the advantages of Rose becoming the mistress of a wealthy man …

I paused in my tracks, glancing back at the manor. There was something not right about any of this. There was something I was missing. No man, not even one as set up in his own conceit as Anthony Bellknapp, would conceive of such a plan. Surely not! And yet, there was a kind of audacity about him, something amoral as though he had long ago ceased to live by anyone's rules except his own, that made me revise this opinion almost as soon as it was formed. I had sensed from our first moment of meeting that he had the sort of egotism that borders on hubris; and if the late Cornelius Bellknapp had been as stiff-necked and proud as his wife, it explained why they and their elder son had never got on.